I am trying to get some work done around Tol-in-Gaurhoth. For one thing, it was designed and decorated by the Noldoran Elves, so everywhere you look are carvings of those stupid magic trees that Melkor did us all the favor of destroying. Trees on the walls, trees on the floors, trees on the doors. Trees on the freakin’ toilet lids.

So I’m having all these carvings scraped and clawed away; everything smoked, burned and painted black; and I have commissioned a new series of historical murals, depicting the True and Correct History of the World.

For instance, I have devised a carving showing how Melkor and I wrote the Music of the Ainur; another of Eru Ilúvatar praising us for our work, and inviting us down into Eä; one of Melkor and I creating Arda; and then one of Manwë Súlimo and the others betraying us and fleeing to Valinor.

In some of them I am larger than Melkor, but that’s only because I’m supposed to be closer to the viewer. Anyway, it’s my house.

So there I am trying to work, choosing just the right shade of crimson enamel for the blood in “The Death of Manwë the Dickless Prick at the Hands of Sauron Gorthaur, Lord of Werewolves” when Carcharoth tells me the Orcs have brought a prisoner.

I assumed this prisoner had something to do with either finding an entrance into Doriath, since this is my top priority, or finding that idiotic “hidden kingdom of the Noldor,” “Gondolfin” or whatever, since this for whatever stupid reason is Morgoth’s top priority. In fact, I asked for a couple of Urulóki to do reconnaissance by air to find this elf kingdom, but Morgoth turned me down — so it must be really important. That’s sarcasm.

Crap. I keep calling him “Morgoth.” If I do that to his face, he’s gonna kick my ass.

Anyway. This prisoner had nothing to do with Doriath or with Gondorfin. He was just some random Man called Gorlim. Works for some guy who calls himself “Barry the Hero,” which is pretty darn egotistical if you ask me. Carcharoth says this Barry is the friend of some elf “king” that Morgoth — MELKOR — wants to kill.

By this time, I didn’t care — my head hurt from trying to keep track of all these elves and mortals and their idiotic names, and I wanted to get back to my murals. But then Carcharoth reminded me that I ate this guy’s wife a few months ago. I barely remember this — I eat a lot of people — but it did give me a chance to play with this fella a bit.

So Carcharoth brought this Gorlim into my dreadful presence — clearly the Orcs, and then Carcharoth, had been pretty rough on the little guy. I was in my “colossal wolf” form, which I wear most of the time now, because it’s scary, I don’t have to wear clothes, and I can poop wherever I want.

I said “I hear now that thou wouldst barter with me.” I always do the “Ainu talk” when outsiders are around. It’s important to sound Biblical when you’re trying to impress people.

Gorlim said that if I reunited him with his wife, he’d tell me how to find Barry and all his Merry Men. I had to admit I felt sorry for this guy, that he’d fallen in love with a woman too stupid to avoid getting caught by Orcs and eaten by me. Then again, he’d been captured by Orcs and was about to be eaten by me, so I guess they were meant for each other.

“That is a small price to pay for so great a treachery,” I replied solemnly. At this point Carcharoth was trying not to crack up at my “serious voice,” which was making me start to crack up, so I had to finish quick. “So shall it surely be. Say on!”

Gorlim spilled the beans, which Carcharoth jotted down on a Post-It. Whatever that is. Then I laughed, told the guy I’d be reuniting him with his wife — BECAUSE SHE’S DEAD, BWA HA HA — and then I ate his limbs off, and told the Orcs to use him as a doorstop.

Anyway. I’m sure I’ll never hear anything about it again. I’ve come up with a great idea for a mural, depicting Morgoth’s victory over Tulkas. I’ve got to do some sketches.

I am getting really tired of Melkor and his fascination with these Elves.

It’s not a fascination — it’s an obsession. It’s like he cares what these little animals think of him. Personally, my sole interest, apart from killing Thingol, is in the traitors, the Valar and their filthy Maiar slaves, hiding behind the mountains in Aman. These are the enemy, not a slew of hairless monkeys.

Sure, I want to destroy Doriath, and murder Thingol in the most humiliating and painful way possible. And I can think of a lot of possibilities. But I only want to kill the Elf Thingol because he’s boning a Maia, Melian. My Melian. So you see, it’s an Ainur thing. Divine business. You screw over Sauron Gorthaur, Lord of Werewolves, Master of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Chief of the Maiar, Lieutenant of Melkor the Lord of the Earth — and you will get screwed back.

And we know exactly where Doriath is located. It’s no mystery. We could destroy Doriath in a day, and still be free for dinner, except that Melian has encircled the land in a wall of enchantment and confusion. Believe me, she EXCELS at enchanting then confusing.

But we can get through that “girdle.” It will just take time and effort — time and effort the Boss would rather spend finding another two Elven kingdoms. Elven kingdoms we can’t locate, and which probably don’t exist.

By the way, that reminds me — guess who gave these idiotic Elves the idea to build hidden cities? No, guess! Ulmo! Remember that asshole? He’s the Valar responsible for water. Wow, that’s great, Ulmo — you’re in charge of one entire molecule! Me, I designed the metaphysical template of the cosmos, and was responsible for designing all the transition elements and all the metals and metalloids. And antimatter. And dark matter. But you’ve got dihydrogen oxide. Good work, dude!

It was the Dickless Prick, Manwë Súlimo, who decided all the traitors would hide in the Uttermost West while Melkor and I actually ran the damn planet. But Ulmo decided to defy Manwë, which would be promising, except he didn’t do it for any good reason. He’s defying Manwë so he can help all the widdle hewpwess Elves and Dwarves and Men.

So he sends messages to the mortals through rivers, streams, the rain, and… I don’t know… pissing, probably. And he told two of these so-called Elven “Kings” to build hidden kingdoms. One is a hole in the ground (does anyone EVER do anything that I didn’t think of first???), and the other — well, we have no idea. Seriously, it probably doesn’t exist.

But the other day Carcharoth discovered that a couple of Men actually found their way to this other hidden kingdom. No one knows where it is, but supposedly it exists and it’s somewhere near my new place on the River Sirion. So now it’s my job to search everywhere until I find this hidden city for Melkor.

You’ll remember that after I designed and constructed Utumno, I built my own (smaller, but better) fortress at Angband. After Melkor got his lame ass kidnapped by the Valar, the filthy traitors destroyed Utumno. That’s okay — it was the first building ever built, and really wasn’t much more than a giant pit surrounded by mountains. A really well-designed giant pit surrounded by mountains, but still.

Angband is far superior — an actual fortress, with walls and parapets and bastions and machicolations. But when Melkor came back from Valinor, he moved right in, leaving his laundry everywhere and eating food from my shelf in the fridge, whatever a “fridge” is. Asshole.

After the Battle of Sudden Elven Incontinence Flame, I noticed that we hadn’t captured one of the elven strongholds, a place called Minas Tirith in the Pass of Sirion. Even though it was built by stinking elves, this tower is actually really well designed and constructed. Here’s what I figure — back in Valinor, these elves were instructed by maiar of Aulë, who were instructed by me back in the day.

So not only is it my talent that got the place built, but really if you think about it, it belongs to me already. I mean, they didn’t have my permission to use my knowledge to build that tower.

Anyway, I figured I could capture the place rather than tear it down. So listen to this. I assembled a strike team of a couple of Balrogs, a few platoons of Orcs and Trolls and Wargs, and some of the lesser fire and darkness spirits who have never settled into a permanent form (smart move on their part).

I worked out an entire attack plan, which Carcharoth explained to the boys. Then after marching in parade formation past Melkor (who sat on his throne, head bowed under that ridiculous crown that looks like the front bumper of a Ford Galaxy with three klieg lamps on it, complaining about migraines), we headed off to Tol Sirion.

(Okay, seriously, what the eff is a “Ford Galaxy?” Or a “klieg lamp?” What the hell am I talking about?)

As we approached, Carcharoth led the troops into formation. I started casting and stacking spells, setting up the ranged attacks first, filling up all my slots. As soon as that bitch Arien pulled the Sun down behind the horizon (the Orcs hate to fight during the day — they get squinty), I launched the first attack — a potent Fear Enchantment that cast a pall of terror over the whole of the Isle of Sirion.

And they fled. The elves. All of them.

They didn’t hold their ground. They didn’t raise their defenses. They just dropped their swords and ran. Even this guy Orodreth, the so-called “King of Nargothrond.” King of my scabby ass.

Now I get it, I’m freakin’ terrifying in my giant werewolf form. When I attack as a 50-foot-tall crinos with fiery eyes and slavering jaws, people lose their shit. (I really like the fiery eyes. I should work on that effect, play it up.)

And I was being tailed by a host of scary freakin’ creatures, the Balrogs not the least bowel-loosening. Plus, that Fear Enchantment is pretty badass.

But any other time we used these tactics, the elves were at least able to hold their ground for a bit. Just turning tail and bolting? What a bunch of pussies.

So the others took off to chase the elven cowards to their deaths, while I took possession of Minas Tirith. I have decided to rename it Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the Isle of Werewolves. You know, because I’m in werewolf form. Yeah, it’s not very clever, but it rolls off the tongue. Tolllll-in-Gaurrrrrrhoth. Listen to those liquid consonants.

This is going to be a great place to get away from Melkor, and plot the next big move — the total annihilation of Doriath and the rending into tiny bits of one Elwë “Thingol” Singollo.

The so-called Dagor Bragollach, or Battle of Sudden Flame, is over. I like to call it the “Battle of Thousands of Elves and Men Screaming I’m on Fire Oh It Hurts So Much.”

And for once, it was a complete victory for our team.

First off, we finally — finally — launched a finished, fully-functioning Flying Fire-Breathing Monster version 1.0. On the official paperwork these things are called Úruloki; I wanted to call them the Great Worms, although they don’t look very much like worms. But when the first one attacked the Elves, they all ran away yelling “dragon! Dragon!” Which I think means “I’m crapping my pants in fear!” in elfy-talk.

By the way, where did Elf-language come from anyway? Did someone sit around for decades inventing it? What kind of a freak would do that?

Anyway. Remember Glaurung? The fire-spirit who was always sucking up to Melkor in the Timeless Halls? Well, he gets to be the first dragon. This is pretty cool for him, since he’s now pretty much our main weapon, the Panzer Division of Fire and Ice and Darkness and Death. Whatever a “Panzer” is.

I guess sucking up pays off. I wouldn’t know.

The other dragons, including Ancalagon, Scatha and Smaug, should be ready soon. I’m still kind of worried about the lack of ventral armor — we’ll have to fix that for Dragon 2.0.

But about the battle. We’ve pretty much cleared the north of Beleriand of everything we don’t like — Elves, Men, Dwarves, trees, streams, rabbits, baby fawns… Now it’s all charred landscape, dead twisted forests, poisoned wells — the way the world should be.

We failed to take the fortress of Minas Tirith, in the Pass of Sirion. I’ll have to go deal with that situation personally.

So now all the remaining Elves are cowering down in Doriath, suckling at Melian’s teat. She will have to be taken down next. Taken down hard. And I intend to murder Thingol with my own claws.

It seems this guy Finglofo or Funglifo or Fingolfolo — I can’t tell these guys apart — was “High King of the Noldor,” which is like being the finest turd in the toilet bowl. I mean really, “High King?” How many “kings” do they have?

Well, this “High King” was the only one of his retarded species to realize that the Elf “Kingdoms” of Middle-earth are over. Done. Kaput. Melkor reigns supreme.

So he hopped on a horse, showed up at Angband, and challenged Melkor to a duel. Which is some pretty ballsy shit. I mean if you’re going to die, do it with style, right?

So I’d like to tell you that Melkor walked over to the little guy and squashed him like a bug. I’d like to tell you that, but it wouldn’t be true. The little guy actually put up a fight — indeed, he got in seven shots on Morgoth. Seven wounds!

Holy crap, I just called him “Morgoth.” I’m starting to talk like an Elf.

The little guy actually wounded Morgoth Melkor seven times before the Boss finally crushed him to death. That is pathetic. I don’t know what they did to Melkor over there in Valinor for all those aeons, but he is NOT the same man he was before.

Plus, just as Melkor was declaring victory, an freakin’ Eagle got past all our exterior defenses, past freakin’ Glaurung, and grabbed up the dead Elf king’s body and bore it away to who knows where. I assume the Eagle is going to eat the body — after all, if it had been trying to help the Elf, it would have grabbed him up before he died, right? That’s just logic, right?

Now Melkor’s down in the Uttermost Pit, whining about how much his foot hurts. Man, it’s all up to me now, isn’t it?

Despite my advice, Melkor has decided in his infinite wisdom to strike against the Elves and eradicate them once and for all.

Not that I have any problem with eradicating the Elves, especially that asshole Thingol. And to be honest, it won’t be hard — the Elves have nothing on us in terms of power and military might.

But it’s too soon. Sure, we’ve been sending out Orc troops every once in a while, to test the Elves’ strength. Each time we do, and they “defeat” us, the Elves treat each skirmish as if it were some glorious battle. As if — these attacks are merely feints to draw out the enemy. Do you think we really care of we lose a few tens of thousands of Orcs? Those things breed like cockroaches!

On one occasion, one of the Flying Fire-Breathing Monsters (we still don’t have a name for these) escaped, before it was ready, and had to flee back to Angband with its tail between its legs. Now the Elves think they can beat anything we got.

Idiots.

Right now we are building an undefeatable Army of Fire and Ice and Darkness and Death, one that will defeat even the filthy Valar traitors themselves. But it takes time. It’s only been a few centuries since Melkor escaped from Aman. Give me another millennium or two, and we’ll be ready!

But no. Melkor wants to attack now. The guy who’s so brilliant, he spent three eons imprisoned by the Valar, thinks it’s time to attack. Don’t listen to Sauron, who’s been doing all the actual work — reinforcing Angband, upgrading the Orcs, manufacturing Trolls, designing Wargs — what the hell would I know about it?

So, we’ll attack early. Fine.

There is an upside. As our first assault in the new war, I got to try out my patented Pyroclastic Attack. See, we dug so deep at Angband that we hit magma, so I designed a series of sluices that brought the magma up into giant reservoirs. Last night we blew the floodgates, and millions of metric tons of lava, ash and poisonous gas burst out onto Ard-galen, converting what was a hideous plain infested with bright green grasses and sickly white flowers into a beautiful wasteland of basalt and hyaloclastite. Yes!

I love it when one of my inventions works! Of course, my inventions always work.

Anyway, those Elves not immediately immolated by the lava are fleeing, leaving us plenty of room to send forth our forces — once the lava cools a bit.

We’re going to set out at tomorrow at dusk. Who knows — maybe we really can destroy the Elves in one fell swoop. Of course, Melkor isn’t taking Men into account, which is a mistake. Melkor always does that — he doesn’t take any enemy seriously, not until that enemy hands him his balls.

Well, I found Men. What a letdown. Seriously, I think Eru Ilúvatar has just given up trying, which is as good a reason as any to replace Him as High Lord and Master of All Creation, I think.

Carcharoth located the Men out East in Eriador, although they are apparently largely migrating West. What is the deal with the so-called Children of Ilúvatar and going West? If Eru wanted all His monkey-people to live in the West, why didn’t He create them there?

Listen, when Melkor and I created this crap planet (yes, it was us — the other Ainur just sat around and let us do all the work), everything was in perfect order. Geometrically perfect and symmetrical continents, perfectly conical mountains — everything in its logical place. Now look at what a mess Arda is. I wouldn’t trust these so-called Valar to run a Ford dealership, much less a physical universe.

Whatever a “Ford dealership” is.

And speaking of creating… look. So Eru decided to create a mortal race, the Elves, that looks like hairless albino apes. Fine, He likes primates. Then that talent-free dumbass Aulë made the Dwarves, which are just fat stunted Elves. Well sure, Aulë is as creative as the average colon, and produces the same product. No wonder his race is just a bad copy of Eru’s.

But now we see Men, and guess what? If an Elf and a Dwarf had a kid (yuck), you’d have a Man. They’re just a stockier, shorter Elf, or a taller, thinner Dwarf. Great creativity there, Eru. Good work. Whadd’ya do, design Men between kippers at breakfast?

Plus, they have these bizarre, rounded ears. And they smell like poo all the time.

Sure, primates have tool-using hands, two of them, which is very important when you need a slave race to dig holes and carve statues of you. But octopodes have eight tool-using limbs, so why not make an octo-race? I don’t want to go anywhere near the water, but I’m sure I could slap together some kind of talking land-octopus. That would be way cooler than “Men.”

Speaking of tentacles, I actually designed my own race. Didn’t I tell you? I mean, it’s just some of the lesser evil Maiar incarnated into physical bodies, but still. They’re called “Wargs,” which is a very cool name I came up with after Carcharoth suggested it. Originally, I designed them as 400′ long giant black wolves with vicious red tentacles coming from their shoulders. They were kewl.

Melkor hated the design. He went on about resource allocations and production quotas — all the shit I tell him when I point out that Project Flying Fire-Breathing Monster is 12 millennia behind schedule and 800% over budget. Then he showed me his Warg redesign — they looked like some kind of big, mangy pig-dog. What the hell?

Finally, I got Melkor to agree that Wargs would be large, talking wolves, and that the Orcs would be able to use them as mounts. I’m proud of them — but the giant, tentacled Wargs were much cooler. (Tentacles are just really useful. I should grow some.)

Anyway, I’m sending some of my spies out to the Men, to tell them the truth about the Valar and to keep them properly terrified of us. You know, the usual. Maybe we can get some slaves out of it, eliminate the rest, make coats from their skins. It’s Winter, you know.

Remember that Elf we had chained to the face of Thangorodrim? Well, he’s gone. Left behind nothing but the shackle, his severed right hand, and the fresh smell of pine.

It seems this Noldor called Fingon rescued the Elf, Maedhros, who is his grandfather’s first wife’s grandson or something. Yes, now I’m having to keep track of these ridiculous Elves. Melkor has got me sending my spies to keep watch on what these unevolved little bags of skin are up to.

It seems Maedhros’ camp stole some boats and abandoned Fingon’s group back in Aman, which was quite the assholish thing to do. So good on them. But instead of marching back to Valinor with their metaphorical tails between their legs (wait — do Elves have tails? I’ve never looked!), Fingon’s contingent decided to cross over to Middle Earth, on foot, across the Grinding Ice of Helcaraxë.

This is the single dumbest thing anyone, Ainu or mortal, has ever done in the history of Creation ever EVER EVER. Good work on designing those Elves, Eru!

First, the Helcaraxë is nothing but 500 miles of glacial ice literally grinding up against itself. It’s like, put 10,000 metric tons of firn and glacial ice into a blender (whatever a “blender” is), press “Puree,” and then leave it on forever. That’s the Helcaraxë. It’s not a freakin’ promenade, its the 10th Level of Icy Blue Hell.

Okay, and second, they COULD HAVE BUILT BOATS. But Sauron, you say, followed immediately I hope by “Lieutenant of Melkor, Lord of Werewolves, Chief of the Maiar, and Master of Angband,” perhaps these stupid Elves did not know how to build boats. Fine. So why not spend 20 years learning to build boats? Or 50 or a 100? You’re Elves! You’re frikkin’ immortal! Who cares how long it takes?

Aaaanyway. A whole bunch of these Elves got ground up by the Grinding Ice, which is pretty much Darwin at work. (He’s one of the minor Craft Spirits — I think it’s actually spelled “Dahruin.” He invented Natural Selection, which meant all we had to do was drop some amino acids in a pond, wait 4.5 billion years, and ta da — a complex disc-wide ecosystem. Saved us a lot of effort.) So by the time Fingon and his half-frozen friends got to Beleriand, they were royally pissed.

So, long story short (I know, too late, but what are you going to do about it? I’m a god!) Fingon’s group and Maedhros’ group weren’t exactly getting along. So Fingon decides to do something to mend fences.

What’s that? Fingon’s group were the victims, so it should have been up to Maedhros’ people to make amends? Well, you only think that because you have a brain in your head.

Fingon climbed Thangorodrim (that was him singing, if you want to call that reedy Elvish caterwauling “singing,” that I mentioned in my last post), and tried to rescue Maedhros. Which was no use, because when Sauron forges a chain, that chain does not break.

And then came the Eagles.

Apparently, Manwë the Dickless Prick has corralled a bunch of the smaller, less intelligent air spirits and let them loose in the form of a race of giant talking birds of the family Accipitridae. I wonder if Eru knows his protégé is running around inventing races?

So these Eagles came, and helped Fingon save Maedhros, and carried them off by air to Melkor knows where. And all we had to show for it was a hand, which was stringy and tasted like chicken.

So now we have to deal with these Eagles. Fortunately, Melkor is still working on his Flying Fire-Breathing Monster Project, which is still unfinished, despite the fact it’s been in development for thousands of years. I was in charge of the Elf-to-Orc upgrade, and that only took me a few centuries. Melkor needs to get with the program.

Well, Melkor and I have managed to spew enough smoke, vapors, filth and obtenebration out over the northern lands that we can move about freely during the day without worrying about that bitch Arien seeing what we’re doing, or burning us with her terrible light. We do not like the Yellow Face, as the Orcs call it.

Anyway, after learning what I did from that Elf chained to that rock, I immediately sought out Melkor. It wasn’t hard — all he does is sit in the Uttermost Pits of Angband, sulking.

I made him show me these “Silmarils,” and tell me the whole story over again. He’s got them set into a great iron crown, which apparently he was taking off and hiding from me whenever I came around. What is he, 12 years old?

It seems that if Melkor hadn’t gotten his panties in a bunch about these idiotic rocks, Beleriand would not be overrun with so-called “Noldor” even as we speak. Regular Elves are pretty easy to kill (unless that bitch Melian is watching their backs), but these Noldor suckled at the Valar teat for thousands of years (or what would have been years, if there had been a Sun), and are pretty powerful. Certainly, not powerful enough to defeat us, by any stretch — but powerful enough to be very annoying.

Now we’re gonna have to dig them out of their hidey holes and regain political control of Middle Earth. As if I didn’t have enough to do. It might take centuries!

But the thing I don’t get is these Silmarils. What’s the big deal?

This Fëanor guy, who sounds like he might have been pretty cool if he’d been on our side, created these three glowing crystals out of the Light of the Idiotic Trees. Indeed, it seems that the Stinking Valar Traitors might have been able to use the Silmarils to heal the trees, if Fëanor hadn’t refused to give them up. Good for him.

But why Melkor chose to steal the Shiny Rocks of Stupidity is beyond me. In fact, if he had just left them for the Valar, they could have resuscitated the trees, and we wouldn’t have to hide from a Sun or a Moon. Good work, Melkor!

But it’s not just Melkor who is obsessed with these rocks. Apparently Fëanor’s sons are hot to get the stones back; and all the various Balrogs and Trolls and Orcs and all love to go down to the Throne Room and stare at the Iron Crown. Why? (Actually, it’s not so much of a Throne Room as a Throne Pit. Well, just a Pit.)

I’ve examined them closely, and it seems the Silmarils have some strange property that causes almost everyone, Vala, Maia or Mortal, to obsessively desire to possess them. It’s weird, because the stones aren’t evil — there’s no Evil in them whatsoever.

I’m immune, but I’m not sure why. It could be important, I’ll have to figure it out.

Yeah yeah yeah, okay, how can I, Sauron Gorthaur, Chief of the Maiar, Master of Angband and Lord of Werewolves, who was made at the hand of Eru Ilúvatar in the Timeless Halls in the Days Before Days, have a birthday?

I’d like to say I determined it through some fancy calculation based on esoteric knowledge known only to the Ainur. But in fact, I picked it myself when I was hiding in the East during the Imprisonment of Melkor. It cheered me up to celebrate my birthday, and gift myself with a meal of raw Elf-flesh.

Anyway. Today was my birthday, but I was working, checking the outer defenses of Angband. It seems the Valar, perturbed by Melkor’s escape, have doubled the fortifications around Valinor, making their mountains extra tall with slippery slides you can’t climb. This is utterly ridiculous, since (1) they left an ungated entrance right smack dab in the middle of the wall, so their Elvish pets can get in and out, and (2) WE CAN SHIFT SHAPE AND FLY. Morons.

But I was double-checking the walls, climbing along the peaks of Thangorodrim when I came upon something astonishing — there was an Elf chained to one of the peaks!

WTF???

So I talked to him. His name is Maedhros, and intimidated by the Terror of My Eyes, he started blabbing his whole story, which was pretty much based on being sorely mistreated by this fellow called “Morgoth.”

It took me a while to figure out that “Morgoth” is Melkor. Yes, this was one of those idiot Elves who went across the sea to go be willing slaves and captives of the Valar. Apparently, they’re back — at least, some of them.

One of them was called Fëanor, who had these jewels that Melkor really, really wanted. (Can you imagine? A being of our divine stature, obsessed with a piece of jewelry? How stupid is that? What is wrong with Melkor nowadays???) So I guess Melkor killed some king, stole the jewels, and fled to Angband.

This Fëanor and his friends followed, and want to get the jewels back. Apparently they did a lot of evil shit along the way — Fëanor sounds like he might have been kind of a cool guy, for an Elf.

Anyway, Fëanor arrives in Beleriand, and is immediately attacked by an army of Orcs. He prevails, and raising an army of his own, and begins to march on Angband (ha!). He’s attacked again, and this time, Gothmog kills him.

Then Melkor actually sent ambassadors to negotiate with Fëanor’s sons. Remember the last time we negotiated? With mortals? Neither do I!

There’s another battle, and the Elves are slain or forced to flee. But this guy, Maedhros, eldest son of Fëanor, was captured, and Melkor chained him to the mountain.

Now, the problem with all this is I KNEW NOTHING ABOUT IT. Why on Middle-Earth would Melkor send out an army without me to lead them? We only ever lose battles when Melkor is in charge! I never lose!

I’ll tell you why. Because when Melkor first got back from Valinor and tried to tell me about all the shenanigans he got into with Elves out there, I made fun of the idea that Anthropomorphic Manifestations of Eternal Verities, like us, would ever give a flying crap about anything one of the “Children of Ilúvatar” did or said. It’s like you, dear reader, worrying about what a hill of ants thinks of you.

I think Melkor was embarrassed after telling me about it. And now he didn’t want to tell me that these idiotic Elves had followed him home.

I’m going to go talk to Melkor about this. You know, things were really a lot better before he came back. No Valinorian super-Elves with bright eyes, no freakin’ Sun or Moon. All because he killed those idiotic trees and stole some jewels.

Hmn. I want to see these jewels. I can’t imagine they’re worth all this trouble.

Just when you think those filthy, Elf-loving Valar traitors are out of your fur, they pull some ridiculous stunt!

Last night I was overseeing the feeding and brushing of the Orc-spawn, weeding out and gobbling down the weak ones, when Carcharoth came yelping into Angband, complaining about some horrible light in the sky. I went out to take a look.

It seems Aulë, my clueless and talent-free ex-boss, rescued some of the light from one of those idiotic trees, and used it to create a moon. Well, The Moon, because they’re never going to be able to pull this shit again. Some guy Tilion, a Maia of Oromë, was hauling this big, round white piece of junk across the sky — our sky that was so beautiful and black before Varda vomited stars all over it.

Well, Melkor and I were still debating which of us would kill Tilion and which would consume The Moon, denying the world its light forever, when the unthinkable happened.

From the East, a terrible bright burning started to rise from the horizon, which resolved into a bright, white light shifted toward the yellow. The firmament turned blue as this terrible light extinguished The Moon and the stars.

Then a burning ball of fire rose into the sky. It would have been the most beautiful thing in the world, if we had made it, all burning hydrogen and deadly radiation — but its fiery light was poisoned and diluted by the weak, golden radiance saved from the dried out husk of one of those trees.

I could feel its heat on my face even from tens of thousands of miles away. And now the whole world was baking under its merciless calefaction, and all those things that love the night and the dark and fear and teeth, like my beloved wolves, were forced to hide in the rocks and dirt.

Those assholes!

Well, Melkor wasn’t going to put up with this shit. He and I and a hundred Balrogs sped into the sky, and by the time the fiery orb had settled below the horizon in the West, we had caught up to Tilion. He and Melkor fought, while the rest of us assailed the orb — but its cold light burned, and my flesh and fur were seared, and several of the Balrogs were extinguished.

We made a strategic retreat, and Melkor sits on his throne in the Nethermost Pits even as I write, devising ways to eradicate the Moon, and the Sun, as they are calling it.

We found out that Arien steers the Sun through the sky, which has caused a big uproar here in Angband. She was one of the most powerful of the Fire Spirits back in the Timeless Halls (and one of the hottest, too — in both senses of the word).

It’s inconceivable to us that one so worthy would join with the Valar traitors, and assail us with fire, which is our element, not theirs. She’s going to have to be destroyed — unless I can turn her…

Imagine hurling the Sun right smack dab into the center of Valimar, the City of the Valar! How cool would that be?